


Finding You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, Romance, a bit of everything?, cozy cabins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He lay very still for a short while, closing his eyes and breathing shuddering breaths through his nose. If Sherlock couldn’t even register John’s presence when he was at the cabin, how was he ever going to realize he hadn’t come back? John worried that by the time Sherlock realized something was wrong it’d be too late. He worried about hypothermia. He worried about bears, and poker-playing squirrels, and the cut on his head. He worried until he lost consciousness completely."</p><p>Sherlock and John get away from the city for a few days, but spending a holiday with Sherlock Holmes could just never be that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding You

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of this is pure, unadulterated fluff, but there’s some hurt and comfort and romance thrown in the mix as well. I was just really in the mood for something that took place in a log cabin, so forgive me if it's a bit unoriginal. Also I'm terrible at medical things, even thought I try to do research, so just bare with me if you can.  
> (not an established relationship)

The black jeep pulled slowly up to the small, humble cabin hidden away in the snowy woods. Sherlock stopped the car, parked on the makeshift pathway and turned to John.

“You’re still angry with me.” He said, looking at his friend who sat with his arms crossed and his gaze fixed sternly ahead.

“Nope,”

“John—“

“No, Sherlock, I’m just—“

“John, I told you, my brother had already arranged everything for this little ‘holiday’ of ours.”

John shifted in his seat, staring up at the tiny cabin a few meters away. “But _why_ Sherlock why? Why would he do something nice out of the blue? It doesn’t add up, he’s up to something I know it. Is this secretly for a case? Am I going to find a murderer playing hide and seek in the woods?”

“You’re being irrational.”

“ _I’m_ being irrational? Huh, that’s rich, really. You took a holiday from _Mycroft_ , bloody Mycroft, Sherlock. The man hacked into an ATM to have a chat with me, and you want me to trust him sending us to a little cottage in the middle of nowhere?”

Sherlock didn’t look at his friend, just let out a long winded sigh. “I’ll get the bags.” He mumbled, opening the door.

John opened the creaky wooden door and set down his lone suitcase on the hardwood floors, looking at Sherlock who was already preparing logs in the fireplace. The cabin was small, with a cozy sitting room, a tiny kitchen area, two bedrooms and a bathroom. John sighed, unzipped his jacket and threw it into a corner, then plopped himself down on the tattered sofa whose upholstery could have very well been from an elderly woman’s bedspread.

“I am still angry, in case you’re wondering.” John muttered with his eyes already closed and an arm draped over his head.

Sherlock poked at the forming fire a bit. “Oh please, you’re overjoyed to be here. If I had to see you aggressively drink tea one more time—“

“How do I _aggressively_ drink tea?”

“You do that thing with your lips,” Sherlock tried to imitate with his own mouth but only ended up looking pouty, “you get all still and look straight ahead and frown into your mug like you’ve just drank a cup of lemon juice.”

John dragged his hands over his face and sighed. “Fine, alright, fine. I do like that we’re getting away for a bit, but do you think you could’ve maybe found a different way of letting me know the plan?”

Sherlock shrugged, sitting cross-legged by the fire. “I don’t see what you mean.”

The doctor chuckled dryly, sitting up a bit. “Sherlock, I’d just walked in the door, you tossed a full suitcase at me and manhandled me into the car!”

“You know me John I don’t do small talk.”

“ _Small talk_? Jesus, was it that much work to say ‘oh, John, by the way, we’re going on holiday for three days in the ruddy woods’? All thanks to Mycroft’s kind heart,”

The detective turned away from John and prodded the fire a bit more. He was silent for a moment before speaking rather softly.

“It was for me, John.” He said.

“What?” John looked up blearily.

“Me, this,” he motioned all around the cabin, “this holiday, for me.”

The shorter man sat up now, adjusting his thin striped jumper as he pushed himself off the sofa and headed towards the fireplace.

“What do you mean?” he asked as he took a seat next to his friend.

“Mycroft, he does this every year. Sends me away when he thinks I’m…overworked. Or for fear I might return to…old habits.”

“Your brother books you a trip when he thinks you’re about to bloody relapse?”

“When he thinks I need to relax, yes.”

“Wow. He really does worry about you.”

“Like a mother hen, John. Like a mother hen.” The detective shook his head and put his fingers in a prayer position under his lips.

John just watched the detective as he slowly slipped from reality and sank into the caverns of his mind. The fire was warm and cast a soft orange glow on the wooded room. The doctor pursed his lips and was loath to admit that he was beginning to relax. Their previous week had been full to the brim with clients coming in, attesting to a myriad of mysteries and ultimately making for a very hectic couple of days.

John was certain Sherlock had called him out of work for the next three days, or perhaps Mycroft had pulled some strings. Mycroft was a master puppeteer, John thought, and maybe they were all just his marionettes.

“Hey, you hungry?” the doctor asked the Sherlock-shaped marble statue.

He nodded sharply when he didn’t get a response, and padded away to the kitchenette. “Right, I’ll fix you something.” John mumbled.

There wasn’t much in the cupboards, save for a few bags of crisps and some biscuits. The refrigerator held more promise, and John silently put together sandwiches for the two of them. John cut his sandwich in half, then cut Sherlock’s into fours, because after living with the detective for so long, he realized that he was more likely to eat something if it was small and could fit in his hand.

Smirking to himself, John brought the plates over to the fire, setting Sherlock’s down right by his knee.

“Sherlock, you’re gonna scorch your socks if you sit like that any longer, budge over a bit will you?” John asked as he enjoyed his sandwich.

“Hm?” Sherlock turned his head, as if noticing John for the first time, then scooted back a bit.

The two got to talking, and Sherlock picked up part of his sandwich somewhere in the middle of the conversation. You can bring a detective to a restaurant, but you can’t make him eat, John mused. But if you put the food right in front of him, he won’t even notice he’s eating until he gets something stuck in his teeth. John chuckled to himself, watching his friend go on about which house plants can be the most poisonous.

“You know, you don’t seem all that peeved about Mycroft’s…meddling.” John stated.

“I usually am, at first.”

“So you like this, then.”

“Contrary to popular belief, there are times when my brain feels as though it might, _overheat_ , if you will.”

“Huh,” John thought for a moment, “so, what do you plan we do then? I mean, it’s nice, this cabin and all, being away from the bustle, I get it, but are we just supposed to lay around and roast marshmallows for three days?”

“If you wanted to. I’ve got plans.”

“Oh, you’ve got plans. Really. What, you gonna meet some deer and squirrels later on for a game of poker? Also I’m pretty sure it’s snowing,” John said as he leaned back to look out the small window, “shit, it really is snowing, where the hell are we again?”

“Not important. I was planning on conducting some low-rate experiments on the local foliage, though it will have to wait until morning after the snow has begun to melt.”

“Right, sure, okay.” John licked his lips as he stared into the fire. Sherlock rolled his sleeves up a bit, looking to his friend.

“Why? Were you expecting some sort of colloquial conversation? Or admissions of dark secrets in front of a raging fire?”

“No. What? No.” John shook his head, fiddling absently with his sleeve.

“Hm. Perhaps a lively game of truth or dare? Quilt making? Or maybe the formation of a brotherly bond as we trek through the open wilderness?”

John stared. “Are you mocking me?”

“I’m mocking your trite traditions and preconceived notions of activities associated with time spent in cabins.”

“Right. We’re most certainly not doing any of those things.” John reassured as he leaned back on the palms of his hands, blissfully thinking about nothing for a moment.

“Shit, what will I do?” John asked, “There’s no Wi-Fi up here. Barely any phone signal,”

“Check your suitcase.” Sherlock answered quickly, steepling his fingers again.

“What’s in my—“

“Quiet, I need to think now.” He said.

John just shook his head lightly and got up to retrieve his bag. He took one last look at the focused detective and opened the squeaky door his bedroom.

The room was a small square, consisting of a double bed that was covered in an intricately patterned quilt, a nightstand, lamp and dresser. John plopped the suitcase Sherlock packed for him onto the bed and zipped it open. He found three days’ worth of jumpers, including a navy blue cable-knit one he didn’t recognize, a few toiletries, trousers, undergarments and, surprisingly, his favorite books. John smiled to himself, thinking that he’d never even told the detective which were his favorites, of course he just knew.  

He settled himself in the middle of the bed and opened up a novel, and read until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

The next morning John found Sherlock sitting at the table in the breakfast nook, engrossed in a botany encyclopedia and completely oblivious to the world around him. He wore his red and green plaid dressing gown and his hair was slightly tousled. John resisted the odd motherly urge to brush the stray hair away from his face and instead set a granola bar down in front of the detective, who absentmindedly began to snack on it.

By midmorning, John was already halfway done with a book, but would have been three quarters of the way done if he didn’t keep looking up from the sofa at Sherlock who was sorting through various leaves on the kitchen table.

He sighed inwardly and went back to his reading, but couldn’t help from getting a little restless. He sat up and wiped the tired look from his eyes to go and see what Sherlock was up to.

“Those plants proving anything interesting then?” He asked, reaching into a bowl to grab an apple.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunted, peering into a microscope.

“Where the hell’d you get a microscope?” John asked, leaning on the counter.

“Mycroft’s people left it here. He’s knows me _so_ well,” the detective drawled sarcastically.

“Oh, okay. So, I was thinking about going for a walk. Do you want to um…Sherlock? You listening?”

John just pursed his lips and headed back to his room when there was no response.

The next time John emerged from the room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. All of his books and plants were still sprawled across the table, but the tall man himself appeared to be missing. The doctor checked his phone for a signal, and frowned when he didn’t find one.

He settled down on the sofa, figuring that his friend was most likely gallivanting off to who knows where, doing who knows what type of research. John was feeling more impatient than relaxed, and almost wished he were back in London, sprinting across rooftops and running down dank alleyways. At least there he had something to do, and someone who needed him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door bursting open and the consulting detective blundering in, with large white snowflakes sprinkled in his hair and on his greatcoat.

“Still snowing then?” John asked.

Sherlock gave him the _Obviously_ glare and sauntered off to his bedroom.

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was doing in his room, but he made him a sandwich for lunch anyway, and set it down on the counter as he ate his meal by himself.

It was an hour later that John’s curiosity got the best of him, and he went knocking on Sherlock’s door.

“Hey Sherlock you okay?” he asked. There was no answer so he tapped lightly again. “If you don’t answer I’m gonna take that as ‘I’m critically injured please help me,’”

Nothing. “I’m not kidding Sherlock I was in the army I’m pretty sure I can open a locked door.”

After another minute or so, John’s mobile dinged in his pocket. It was a message from a certain five-year-old consulting detective.

_I’m thinking. SH_

John scowled. “How the bloody hell do you have signal..?” he muttered to himself as he walked away.

 

* * *

At just after four o’clock, John had finished searching the cabin for extra firewood. He was about to run outside to get some when he came into the sitting room and found his friend back at the kitchen table again, scribbling frantically in a notebook.

“Having fun?” John asked flatly.

“What? Oh, yes. Doing menial research always clear my head. It’s quite relaxing.”

“Oh, really? That’s good, yeah. Glad you’re enjoying yourself.” The doctor steeled himself, gripping the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock looked up from his notes.

“Are you angry with me again?”

“You tell me.”

“That’s obviously a yes. What could I have possibly done this time? I’ve stayed out of your hair all afternoon.”

“Exactly, Sherlock. But you haven’t stayed out of my hair for my sake, you’re completely ignoring me. What’s with you?”

Sherlock looked around, furrowing his brow. “You said no brotherly bonding.”

“We’re not—“John sighed, “Well you could still _talk_ to me.” He reasoned.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I dunno, ‘cause we’re friends? And I’m here aren’t I? Why the hell did you bring me along if you were just gonna keep to yourself the whole time?”

“I figured you needed the break. And if I’d asked you beforehand you would have refused to come, then you would overwork yourself and be incredibly irritable when I got back.”  

“You brought me here, so I wouldn’t irritate you when you got back.”

“Yes.”

“Are you irritated with me now?”

“A bit,”

“You might have wanted to think this through a little more.”

“Don’t get cross John; we’re only here for one more day.”

“You know what? We’re out of firewood. I’m gonna go get some more, and maybe stop for a game of poker with the squirrels on the way back.” John sneered, grabbing his coat off the floor.

“Squirrels do love nuts,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

“The what?” John snapped.

“Nothing,”

The doctor groaned irritably as he headed for the door. “Trying to be funny…” he mumbled.

John didn’t even care how many big sticks he was missing as he trudged through the trees. He’d stop occasionally to pick one up, but for the most part he was barely paying attention to where he was going, and muttered to himself all the way.

“Bloody stupid cabin, stupid plant research, trying to make squirrel jokes…” He frowned, picking up another stick to add to the pathetic collection in his hand.

He’d angrily scowled his way through the forest for a good half hour when the trees started to become denser, the terrain a little rougher. It’d stopped snowing a while ago, though there was still plenty of snow on the ground. But he wasn’t acknowledging the scenery, he was too busy thinking of all the things he could have been doing back at home. He could have gone to the surgery, made some much needed money. He could have cleaned up the flat, or did the shopping, or fixed global warming. But instead he was dragged out to a holiday with his best mate who somehow forgot he existed.

_I get overlooked enough at home,_ he thought, _leaves me at crimes scenes, doesn’t even realize when I’ve gone out, forgets I’m there half the time, and now that it’s just the bloody two of us he still can’t get his head out of his arse long enough to hold a damn conversation._

John was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice how eerily close he’d been standing to the edge of a rather large and rough-looking hill. He was just bending down to pick up another twig when his foot slipped on the snow and he lost his balance. The broken sticks he’d gathered flung helplessly out of his hands as he fell back and started to tumble down the jagged, rock-riddled drop.

He grunted in pain as he slid and fumbled, and could have sworn he blacked out for a split second when a searing spike of pain shot through his leg. When he reached the bottom of the deep ravine, he was extremely disoriented and all he could register was cold and pain.

Shutting his eyes tight, John tried not to panic and focused on the sound of the trickling water in the nearby stream and the frantic breaths he was taking. After taking a moment to try to calm his breathing, he needed to assess what his possible injuries were.

John gingerly touched a hand to the side of his head, and winced when he proved it was definitely blood and not melted snow that was making his hair wet. It was a small scrape, but he knew head wounds bled a lot so he filed that away as mildly alright. His ribs seemed most likely to be bruised and not broken, so he took that as another good sign, but any hope of standing up was lost when he tried to move his left leg.

“ _Shit_ ,” he cursed with a raspy voice. His leg was definitely broken, he knew that, and there was no way he’d be able to help himself up.

“Shit...” he muttered again when the pain started to make itself more known. He grimaced and reached carefully into the pocket of his jeans, only to pull out a very broken mobile.

“Oh…for the love of…” John trailed off as he carelessly tossed the useless phone aside. He reasoned that even if it hadn’t broken, there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to get a signal anyway.

He lay very still for a short while, closing his eyes and breathing shuddering breaths through his nose. If Sherlock couldn’t even register John’s presence when he was at the cabin, how was he ever going to realize he hadn’t come back? John worried that by the time Sherlock realized something was wrong it’d be too late. He worried about hypothermia. He worried about bears, and poker-playing squirrels, and the cut on his head. He worried until he lost consciousness completely.

 

* * *

Back at the cabin, Sherlock was finishing up his studies at the table. He looked up and into the sitting room for the first time in what felt like ages.

“John, could you get me a…” he faltered as he remembered their conversation earlier. John had left to get firewood, surely that couldn’t have been too long ago. Sherlock’s stomach made an irritated growl, and he looked to the kitchen countertop. There was a sandwich, cut into fours, sitting on the ledge. John had made him lunch. How long ago was lunch? He checked his watch, noting it to be almost five in the evening, and the light was beginning to fade outside.

He brought the food back to the table and reluctantly picked at it as he went over his notes.

Sherlock tried to figure out how long ago John had left, and when he might be back. He ascertained that his friend left shortly after four o’clock, and he most likely lost sight of his task and used it as an excuse to blow off steam. He calculated that John would have looked for sticks for about three minutes, then spent approximately thirty minutes sulking before he turned around and made a thirty-five minute journey back. It’d been about fifty minutes since his departure, so Sherlock expected him back within ten minutes.

Unfortunately, after fifteen minutes of mindless pacing and lip-biting, the good doctor still hadn’t returned. Sherlock didn’t even realize the chill that started to spread through the place until then, and he tugged his dressing gown on tighter. He grunted after that failed to make him warmer, and decided he’d go get John, and the firewood himself.

Sherlock stepped outside into the chilled winter evening, and flicked on his torch after adjusting his navy scarf. The sun was still somewhere in the hazy grey sky, casting a dark purple and bluish glow on everything. The snow crunched under Sherlock’s feet as he shined the light onto the ground, following John’s angry footsteps.

The detective couldn’t deny the hint of worry that crept up on him after following the footprints for almost twenty minutes, and not seeing or hearing any sign of his friend.

“John!” He called out into the almost-darkness.

“John!” He tried again, burying his cold face in his scarf.

He squinted, continuing to follow the steps until they lead him to a mess of twigs and sticks, strewn about at the top of a very unfriendly looking hill.

“Oh, dear lord…” Sherlock breathed as he stepped closer and saw the distinct evidence of John losing his footing. He took a tentative step to the edge, and let out a long, exasperated breath as he saw his friend laying stock still at the bottom of the ravine.

“No, come on, don’t do this,” he sighed as he began to ease himself down.

“Now is not the time, John,” he said under his breath, carefully stepping onto stones and making sure he didn’t topple over.

Eventually he eased his way down, and was by John’s side in a flurry. He slowly turned him over, noted the scratch on his head, the way he was holding his midsection suggested possible bruised ribs, and the fact that he couldn’t get up by himself could have meant he was knocked out upon falling, or a leg injury, or any number of things.

He checked for signs of hypothermia, observing with somewhat relief that he was most likely not experiencing anything that’d be fatal, seeing as how he’d assumingly only been out there for thirty to forty minutes, and he still had most of the color in his lips and face. There was no calling for help; Mycroft practically chose that location on purpose so Sherlock wouldn’t be distracted by social connections.

Sherlock silently cursed his brother and placed one arm underneath John’s neck, and the other underneath his knees. He lifted him as carefully as he could, cradling him close as he looked for an alternative way back up.

Sherlock ended up having to change to a fireman’s carry as he made his way up a less steep hill nearby. John had grunted once on the way back, and Sherlock took that as the most hopeful sign he was likely to get.

When they finally made their way back to the cabin, Sherlock set John down on the sofa slowly, and covered him with a quilt as he tried to phone for help again. He practically sprinted all around the house, trying to get a signal, but there was just nothing. In the back of his head he knew the closest hospital was an hour away, and he had no idea how to get there, not to mention the snow making it impossible to decipher what was a road and what was an open field.

“Oh dear…” Sherlock put a hand to his head, realizing he basically had no other choice then to try and treat John’s injuries himself.

He laid out what needed to be done in his head; he’d have to get John’s body temperature back to normal, then treat any cuts or scrapes and check for broken bones. He needed to try to wake him, to check for a concussion, make sure he had no internal injuries. And he had a moment of panic when he had no idea what to do first. In the end he went with his instinct, and carefully carried John to the bathroom.

He turned the bath water on to lukewarm, and gently took off the doctor’s sodden and wet clothes. He left his friend’s pants on to save some dignity and lowered him into the water.

Sherlock got a soapy washrag and ran it along his dirt covered limbs. He took special care to wash out the various scrapes on his arms and legs, and then moved on to the cut near his temple. The detective was getting most of the dirt out when John began to stir. His lips trembled a little and his brow furrowed. Sherlock continued his ministrations as John mumbled with his eyes closed.

“Mm…what…” he said in the ghost of a whisper.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” Sherlock assured, finishing his washing and brushing some of John’s hair back with a wet hand. John made one more noncommittal noise before slipping back into unconsciousness.

The consulting detective washed the dirt, blood and grime out of John’s hair and eased him out of the tub. He dried him off, bandaged all of his scrapes, and quickly went to gather some dry clothes.

Once he was dressed, Sherlock laid John down on the bed in his friend’s small room, and went about seeing what needed attention. He shined his torch in the doctor’s eyes and was happy to see that his pupils were responding correctly. He kneeled down by the side of the bed and shook his shoulder lightly.

“John, can you hear me?” he asked.

“John? I need you to wake up. Can you hear me?” he tried.

Sherlock smiled quickly as he saw John’s mouth begin to move and his eyes tried to blink open.

“Mmph…” the shorter man mumbled.

“Very intelligent, can you say anything else?”

“Mm, Sh’lock?” he asked as he opened his eyes just a sliver and took in the detective’s tall form above.

“Yes, very good. Do you know where you are?”

“Bed.”

“Sharp, as usual. How do you feel? Can you tell me, John?”

John thought for a moment, shutting his eyes tight and trying to make sense of what was happening. He tried to sit up but was immediately pushed gently back down.

“No, you need stay put. Tell me what you feel, please, where does it hurt? And don’t say ‘everywhere.’”

“Everywhere,” John smiled slightly, sarcastic even when half-conscious. “Um, leg, and, uhm…ribs, bruised.”

“Is that all?”

John nodded, then put a hand to his left leg. “Broken,” he sighed.

“Oh, of course, not a problem,” Sherlock swallowed nervously.

“Splint,” John said.

“Right, I will uhm, get right on that. Are you certain you’ve sustained no other injuries?”

John nodded again, “Doctor, ‘member?” he smiled.

“Half awake, remember? Now, does your head hurt at all?”

“No, just here,” John said, putting a hand to the scrape.

“Alright. Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“No,”

“How many fingers?” Sherlock asked, holding up two digits.

“’M not stupid,” John slurred.

“Of course you’re not. How many fingers, John?”

“Two, genius. Now please, leg,” he pleaded, trying not to scrunch his face up in pain.

“On it,” Sherlock announced, heading out of the room to get supplies. John grinned to himself, knowing he was safe, he let himself surrender to sleep.

 

* * *

When John opened his eyes the next morning, he felt heavy, cloudy, and a little confused. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up on one elbow, looking in awe at the makeshift cast Sherlock had conjured up from some blankets and thick pieces of cardboard. He was vaguely aware of the conversation he’d had with the detective before he went to sleep again, and remembered falling down the hill with an annoyed moan. John looked to the nightstand and gratefully took the pain pills that were resting there with a glass of water. Sherlock must have heard him shuffling, because he stepped into the room not two minutes later.

“You’re awake.” He said, shutting the door behind him.

“Evidently,” John said, trying to prop himself up a bit more. Sherlock noticed him struggling and placed another pillow behind his head for him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Peachy, how do you think?” John looked up at Sherlock who seemed to be lost for words, opening and closing his mouth. “No, sorry,” John corrected, “sorry, I’m alright. Just, the leg hurts, and everywhere is generally sore so I’m gonna be a touch more grouchy than usual.”

“Quite alright. Are you hungry? Need to use the loo? Dizzy at all?”

“One question at a time, yeah? I could do with a few crackers or something but nothing much. I’m fine with the bathroom for now and no I’m not dizzy. Like I said, just sore and grumpy.”

“Ah, almost like normal,” Sherlock joked.

John grinned weakly at him as he left to fetch some crackers.

 

* * *

It was a couple hours into the day, almost half of those hours spent trying to get John to the restroom without one of them tripping over the other. John was lying in bed atop the quilt, flipping through one of his favorite books and trying to ignore the dull ache in his leg that the pain medication wasn’t doing a great job of masking. Of course it wasn’t long before Sherlock came in to check on him again.

“I’ve tried the phone again, still nothing,” He said with hands clasped behind his back, “but I’m sure that by either this evening or tomorrow morning the snow will be melted enough that I can drive us back safely.”

John put his book down and stretched a bit. “Mm, s’good. What a lovely, relaxing holiday hm?”

Sherlock looked sheepishly down at the floor.

John stuttered, “Uh, no, sorry, s’my fault anyway, I—“

“It wasn’t your fault.” Sherlock chimed.

“I was a bloody klutz Sherlock. I should’ve been paying attention but I was just angry.”

“You seem to be angry with me a lot as of late.”

“Yeah well that seems to be just about the only time you pay attention to—no, it’s alright.” John shook his head.

“It’s not alright, John. I’d like to apologize.”

John licked his lips as he thought. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’ll be okay once we get out of here. Now, you wanna tell me where this jumper came from?” he asked as he pinched the navy blue cable knit he was wearing.

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said, standing by the nightstand, “I picked that up for you, actually. One of my cases from last week landed me in Soho and I remembered I’d spilled hydrochloric acid on one of your jumpers, so I grabbed the first one I saw.” He shrugged.

John smiled, almost chuckling. “Well, thank you. Very thoughtful. It’s warm.”

“I think the navy suits you.”

“Matches your scarf,”

Sherlock tried to hide his grin. “Yes, well. You’re alright then?”

“As alright as I’ll ever be right now.”

The detective nodded briskly and headed towards the door, but slowed as he reached for the doorknob. “Actually, John I,” he faltered, searching for words.

“Everything okay?”

He bit his lip. “There is something, I suppose I should confess to you,” he said solemnly as he tried not to look at John.

“You’re not gonna tell me you lost your life savings in a game of squirrel poker are you?”

Sherlock tried to smile, “No. It’s nothing major it’s just…you were not supposed to be injured on this, excursion.” He said, stepping closer to the bed again and fiddling with the sleeves o his dress shirt.

John sat up a bit more. “I know, we went over that. It was just supposed to be a nice weekend away from all the craziness, provided by your loving brother.”

“Mm, not exactly.” Sherlock stated, staring up at the ceiling.

“What do you mean?”

 “This wasn’t supposed to happen this was supposed to be, no, never mind, you need to rest.”  Sherlock was about to turn to leave when John called him back.

“No wait a minute, tell me what’s going on.”

The detective took a moment before sitting himself down on the side of his friend’s bed, his back facing John. He turned a bit to look at him.

“I lied. Mycroft didn’t put this together to help me relax; he did it as a joke.”

“A _joke_?” John asked, predicting a seventy-percent chance of a headache in the future of this conversation.

“Yes. You see, while he did, at one point, send me away once a year to sort myself out, two years ago I asked him to stop. But there is one annual tradition between my brother and I that we have kept true to since I was twelve, and that is that every year; we are allotted one humiliating prank on each other. It was a truce we settled on after a very destructive series of pranks when I was eleven.”

“Huh. Okay. I’m confused. How does a cabin in the woods constitute a prank?”

“He told me it was for a case. Made it sound clever and everything. That’s why I shoved you into the car so fast. It wasn’t until we were about ten minutes from the cabin that he texted me his true intentions.”

“I told you not to text and drive.”

“All I said was ‘piss off.’”

“We could’ve crashed!”

“Into what? The air? Stay on track, John.”

“Right, sorry, go on.” John said, crossing his arms.

“Don’t you see? He’s mocking my lack of a romantic relationship, _and_ playing on all the assumptions of us being a couple, by sending us on a _romantic_ getaway to a humble little cottage in the middle of the woods. No doubt he’s already told this fact to half of the Yarders, and they’ll all be sniggering behind our backs upon our return.”

“Shit, he’s on a whole other level with these pranks isn’t he? That’s _personal_. And hold on, why am I in this? What did I do?”

“Guilty by association,” Sherlock reasoned with a dismissive hand. “Also you stomped on his shoe last week.”

“He called me your sidekick!”

“Still, he is very serious about our little war.”

“Jesus. You’d better get him good for this.” John said as he took a much needed sip of tea.

“Oh I already did mine. Covered his entire desk in frosting. Took him three days to clean it and a week to get the smell of strawberries out of his office.”

John laughed wholeheartedly, but stopped as he winced in pain and clutched at his side. “Oh, ow,” he sighed.

Sherlock huffed. “I’m sorry John, you weren’t supposed to be hurt, I was just going to wait it out and let him have his fun. That’s why I was avoiding you. I feared if I got too close it would seem, awkward. The warm fire, the close proximity, the privacy. God, it’s the making of one of those terrible romance novels you read.”

“They’re not _that_ terrible.” The doctor mumbled tiredly.

“’ _Oh, Derek, please take me away to a land filled with love and devotion and a never ending sunset_ ,’ Rubbish.”

“If it were rubbish you would’ve ‘deleted’ that line you just recited.”

“I think the pain’s making you delirious, John.”

The doctor smiled weakly, knowing that the pain really was going to get out of hand if he didn’t take another dose of pills soon. Sherlock could see it on the look on his face and got up to retrieve the tablets from the medicine cabinet.

When Sherlock returned, John was grimacing and trying not to grip his makeshift cast in pain. The detective held John’s head up and helped him get the pills down before draping a small blanket over his friend. He leaned down next to him and pushed his hair back soothingly.

“We’ll get you real help soon, John. Don’t worry. And then we’ll make Mycroft thoroughly regret this little ruse.”

John tried to smile through the pain that was threatening to take him over, and Sherlock just petted his hair softly until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

Later that evening, after the sun had sunk down, Sherlock decided to check on John once more, bringing him a cup of Earl Grey and some more pain killers. While John had slept, Sherlock had searched the whole area for a phone signal again, suddenly wondering how on earth he was able to send John that one text the day before. He had come up empty handed and instead started up the car to see how the roads were. He’d gotten farther than he thought he would have, but most paths were still covered in snow and he couldn’t risk getting lost. They would have to stay one more night, and Sherlock secretly hoped that Mycroft would send someone to them when he was informed that they hadn’t returned on schedule.

John seemed to be asleep when Sherlock came in, but he smiled softly when the tea was set down on his nightstand. Sherlock tried to act like he didn’t know he was awake, and padded slowly to the door.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John called with a quiet, raspy voice.

“Hm?” He turned, noticing the fascinating warm colors that danced in John’s ash-blonde hair in the glow of the small lamp. He knew exactly why Mycroft sent them there, because besides John’s leg being propped up on a pillow and bound by a jerry-rigged cast, the setting was most certainly what someone might call romantic.

“I was thinking,” John continued quietly.

“Were you?” Sherlock shut the door gently and moved a bit closer, figuring John had something he wanted to talk about.

“Yeah, I just, when I fell, uhm, I thought…” he chewed the inside of his mouth, thinking.

“Yes?”

The doctor hummed, trying a different tactic. “Do you know why I was so angry with you earlier? Before I left to get firewood.”

“Er, we weren’t bonding?”

Chuckling under his breath, John adjusted the blanket around himself. “No, that’s not, well I guess you could say that. I was just annoyed because, even out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no computers or phones or cases, you still barely noticed me.”

“I always notice you.” The detective corrected rather quickly.

“No, but you don’t acknowledge me. I mean you do, when you need me, but you’re so far off in your own head sometimes it’s like I can’t even reach you. And when I was lying there, at the bottom of that hill, I thought—“

“You thought I’d forget about you. You thought I would forget you’d gone out, or remember too late.”

John nodded sullenly. He looked down at the floor, then back up at Sherlock who was staring unfocused at the bedspread. “But you found me.” John said, in a considerably lighter voice. “You actually found me,” he grinned.

“I’ll always find you.” Sherlock said, staring right into John’s sad hazel eyes.

“I’ll always find you John because you’re always there. When I look over my shoulder, when I look next to me, when I look up, I find you. That’s why I don’t notice when you leave, because I _still_ think you’re there.” Sherlock didn’t even register that his voice had been cracking a bit, and John’s eyes had begun to water. Feeling he’d made a mistake, the detective turned to leave. “I’m sorry, you need rest.”

“Sherlock wait,” John blinked an embarrassing tear away from his eye and patted the empty space next to him in invitation.

Wordlessly, the taller man made his way to John’s bed and sat beside him, leaning up against the headboard.

“Are you alright?” He asked, staring down at John’s tired eyes.

“Are you?” the shorter man asked.

“Fine, John, I’m sorry. Perhaps it was that dreaded novel of yours that’s got me spewing so much _sentiment_.”

“No, it’s, not that. What you said before, I was wondering…this whole joke that Mycroft’s playing on you. He’s teasing you for not ever having a relationship?”

“I believe so. He finds it amusing somehow.”

“Sherlock, that actually makes me really sad.” John admitted, sniffling a bit.

“Why would it make _you_ sad?”

“Because,” the doctor started, looking up at his taller friend, “you’re this mad, brilliant detective. You’ve got so much life in you and yes, you really are a bit mad, and terribly rude, but those things you just said about me, about always finding me, do you know how many people would kill to hear someone say something like that?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t.”

“You…deserve someone, Sherlock. You deserve to know what it’s like to be close to someone, to have someone you trust that always makes you happy.”

“But I’ve got you.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean…have you ever even been kissed before?”

Suddenly Sherlock’s mouth went a bit dry, and he tried not to look at John as he rifled through a few memories.

“I don’t think so, no. Unless family members count.”

John rubbed absently at his leg, trying not to think about his bad luck. “No, they don’t count.”

“Oh, well then no, I suppose.”

“I think you should.” John said a bit took quickly.

“What do you—“

“No, I mean, I just—“

“John, are you…would you like to kiss me? Is that what you’re suggesting?” Sherlock asked a bit clinically.

The doctor licked his lips out of habit. “I just, think, everyone should experience, that, at least once, is what I’m saying.” He stuttered lamely.

“Well, I hardly think there’s ever going to be anyone I trust more than you, and seeing as how Mycroft set this up as a romantic weekend—“

“Are you saying you want to spite him? Diffuse his own joke?”

Sherlock smiled. “That’d be the least expected outcome. He enjoys making light of the fact that I have no experience.”

“We could,” John swallowed nervously, “prove him wrong?”

For what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock just stared at John in quiet concentration. “I can’t work out if you want to do this to make me happy or to get back at Mycroft.”

“Little of both,” John smirked. “Also these pain pills are doing _wonders_ to my conscience—“

“Alright.”

“What?”

“Alright, I’ll do it. I’ll…kiss you, or, let you kiss me. To erm, see what it’s like. Just once.”

The doctor didn’t say anything, just nodded his head slightly nervously. He licked his lips again and thought for a moment, hesitating, then made his decision. He looked up at Sherlock. “C’mere,” he said, putting a hand to his friend’s shoulder and gently guiding him closer to his face.

“Are you sure this experience is so unique that I can’t find the dopamine anywhere else?” Sherlock asked a bit huskily as he hovered about ten inches from John’s face.

“Just, stop thinking,” he said as he wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and risked tangling his fingers in his raven hair. When the detective was just over an inch away from John, the doctor suddenly stopped and looked at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“Oh god, you’re even more frightening up close.” He said shakily, trying not to look into the mercury-like eyes that seemed to be peering into his soul.

“Was that meant to be a compliment?”

“No, yes, god, you are _absolutely_ terrifying.” John breathed.

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Don’t say anything.”

And then John pulled Sherlock just that inch closer, and their dry lips brushed against each other’s. It was a bit awkward, and scratchy, but Sherlock leaned forward on his own accord and touched his lips to John’s again. The doctor purposefully licked his lips this time, and leaned upwards to kiss that madman again. Sherlock kept his eyes firmly shut, letting out tiny, shaky breaths as he pulled away and went back. John sighed at the insanity of it all, at the insanity that had become his definition of normal, and decided if this was going to be this insane man’s only kiss, it should be a good one.

So he settled his hand more firmly in the back of Sherlock’s hair and carded his nails through it softly. Sherlock hummed with content and placed a hand in John’s hair as well. The doctor felt particularly ambitious, knowing he was finally the one with the upper hand, and took the detective’s lower lip between his own. Sherlock breathed through his nose in pleasant surprise and quickly mirrored the action on John. After a few more chaste kisses, John was anxious to see how Sherlock was, so he stopped and pushed Sherlock away a bit with a hand to his chest.

“You were right,” Sherlock said, his voice gruff and shaky.

“Huh?” John asked, a little dazed.

“I don’t think I could find that particular feeling anywhere else.”

John smiled. “Glad you agree.” He looked up at his friend that was still looming a few inches above him. Sherlock was staring at his lips.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, as he slowly brought his thumb to John’s lower lip, and began running across it absentmindedly, “your lips are incredibly small,” he pointed out.

“Well, yeah,” John all but mumbled, distracted by Sherlock’s thumb stroking leisurely across his mouth.

“But it doesn’t _feel_ small, when I—“

“Sherlock stop.” John’s hand quickly flew out and gripped Sherlock’s wrist firmly, bringing his hand away from his face.

“Why?”

 John almost laughed. “Because it’s bloody turning me on! _Jesus_ , sorry.” He panted. As Sherlock began to sit up, he pulled him gently back down. “No, wait, ow, shit,” he cursed as he clutched the blanket above his leg.

“John, these pain pills aren’t doing much anymore,”

“No, they’re really not. Oh, god that hurts,”

“I should—“

“No, please, just,” He put his four fingers gently around Sherlock’s neck, holding him close. "Just stay here, for a bit, please.” John said, grunting as his face bunched up in pain again.

“John, is there anything I can do?”

“No, no. I can’t take any more pills for at least an hour, and a cold compress isn’t going to do shit, sorry, there’s just nothing to do for it. We have to get out of here. I swear to god Sherlock I’m going to kill your brother.”

The taller man let John’s hand fall and he lay down next to him, panicking inside because for what felt like the first time, his inconceivable intelligence wasn’t going to do anything to help. He thought quickly, and took John’s hand in his own.

“First of all, if you kill my brother, we won’t be able to prank him back. Second, we cannot go anywhere until tomorrow morning, upon which my brother will have most likely sent people to check on us, and third, just squeeze my hand when the pain gets too much. My mother used to let me do that when I’d get shots.”

Sherlock quickly reconsidered that suggestion when John gripped his hand with all his might. “Ow, John!”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, easing up his grip a little.

“Were you trying to break every bone in my hand?”

“No, sorry,” he said, laughing dryly.

Sherlock could do nothing but observe John, reading into every facial twitch, every groan of pain he tried to hide. The detective was cursed with seeing through all of it, and for once wished he wasn’t so perceptive. He remembered John, barely conscious in the bath, still bleeding from his temple. He looked at his friend who was still trying to muffle his discomfort. Sherlock slowly reached his free hand up to John’s forehead and brushed his hair back.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He said, and John stilled completely.

John was suddenly flooded with memories of soapy warm water, and a washcloth patting softly on his forehead. He remembered a blurry vision of Sherlock putting his socks on for him, and settling him down on a soft bed. He could hear his voice;

_John? I need you to wake up. Can you hear me?_

The doctor wasn’t even surprised when Sherlock wiped the forming tear from his eye. This was all so strange, he was an army man, he didn’t need anybody’s pity. He didn’t want people to mollycoddle him, and yet it was all he could do not to practically burrow into Sherlock’s chest and wrap an arm around him.

The pain in his leg was slowly subsiding to a throbbing ache, and he could deal with that. Instead of thinking about it he focused on what he and Sherlock were going to do to Mycroft when they got home.

Sherlock practically read John’s mind. “We could take all of his umbrellas away.” He said.

“We could fill his office floor with cups of water.” John suggested.

“I could pay a karaoke singer to go into the Diogenes Club.”

“We can force him to eat in a café.” John’s voice was getting thick with sleep.

“I can change his ringtone to my screeching violin.”

“We could guess his weight,”

“Dye his hair,”

“Steal his mobile…”

“Set him up on a date with Lestrade,”

 John smiled, too tired to comment, and Sherlock went on, suggesting horrible acts of vengeance and stroking John’s hair until the good doctor fell asleep.

 

* * *

The next morning was a rush of activity. Mycroft walked in on John and Sherlock cuddling and was utterly unnerved. He ignored Sherlock’s rage all the way to the hospital where John was put in good hands, and would be okay to leave within a few days. When the boys were finally back at Baker Street, all seemed to be returned to as normal as it would ever get. John fussed and insisted he was fine as he hobbled around on crutches. Mrs. Hudson made him soup and Sherlock made him burnt toast. For a while it was as if the entire insane weekend never happened, and then one morning, Mycroft Holmes walked into his office to find every single piece of furniture nailed to the ceiling. He had no idea how Sherlock did it, but he knew one thing for sure.

He was going to kill him.

**Author's Note:**

> It was probably fairly obvious, but that was my first time trying to write slashy things, so I apologize. I hope you enjoyed it anyway, and if anyone wants to continue this story with the new developments in their relationship, feel free, just let me know :) *comments to me are like cake to Mycroft ^^ Thanks so much for reading


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